I gained some weight in Canada. What gives? I mean, really. I know better.
Stupid Dairy Queen with it's stupid ice cream cake.
Stupid chocolate with it's stupid caramelly insides.
Stupid pizza with it's stupid cheesy awesome-ness.
Today I went back to My Fitness Pal and started all over. Well, not all over. I'm not that obsessed.
What, exactly, was I thinking? Why am I putting this much pressure on myself?
The thing is, I'm not fat. I don't need to lose any more weight. But what I do need to do is ... well, look. I've had four kids. I could pass for a zebra with the amount of strech marks on my stomach. And also my stomach has been blown up (and deflated) like a balloon about ... four ... times. And these hips. These are baby-birthing machines. I just noticed that my little behind kind of just hangs there now. And I did breastfeed four children so any, uh, perkiness? What's that?
And yet, my husband picks up an itty bitty teeny bikini and says, "Now THIS is what I'm talking about!" and does the whole eye brow thing and grabs my butt and kisses my neck and I think, "Oh, perhaps I could pull that off."
Except when I get home and put it on and look in the mirror I notice that I can't. Don't even try. Just leave it alone Momma.
But then Mike locks our bedroom door and assures me that he seems to think I can.
Anyway, we'll be in Hawaii or Mexico or at least at a hotel with a heated pool and won't know anyone so maybe I'll just trust him.
Either way, this post isn't getting a picture.
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